by Jayne Denker
Connacht Garvey is actually kissing me, and I'm drowning. My head is buzzing. My knees weaken, and I hold him tighter just to stay upright. The kiss is gentle and easy and hard and urgent all at the same time. His lips are soft, his stubbly beard rough on my chin. Those huge arms of his are even tighter around me. One hand splayed on my back and the other in my hair, he presses closer yet.
This is beyond anything I…anything. At all. In the entire world.
My lips part without any coaxing from him. I couldn't resist if I tried. He kisses me deeply then pulls back slightly, peppering me with a few smaller kisses. But when I sigh against his mouth, he's back full force—pressing, always pressing, as though he can't get close enough. My breath is gone, stolen by the moment, the feel of his body—even the warmth of his cheeks and the gentle bump of our noses, a necessary clumsiness that's not in the least bit embarrassing but instead sexy as hell. When he groans against my mouth, "God, Melanie," I'm lost, flung sideways into a parallel universe I thought I could only imagine. But my imagination was nothing like this.
I pull back a little, and he stares at my mouth, eyes half-lidded, his breathing as heavy as mine. The sight of him makes me land with a bump, back in the reality I've known for thirty years. This is Conn. Conn. Connacht Garvey. Mister Untouchable. Always on the fringes of my life, yet always in it at the same time. But never…
Don't say a word, I warn myself. Not one word, if you know what's good for— "Is…is this weird?"
Dammit.
His eyes start to focus. "Weird?"
"Is it? It is. Weird, I mean. Isn't it?"
I feel him tense up, and suddenly I'm keenly aware of my arms still wrapped around him.
"Melanie Abbott. Don't you dare freak out on me."
"I'm not!"
I am. I mean, come on—I've known this guy my entire life, and no matter what fantasies I've entertained about him off and on over the years, I've always thought deep down he was completely out of reach, and now…this. It's messing with my head something fierce, not to mention my heart and…other zones.
"I…I should go."
"M—"
"No, it's…I'm fine. This was…" Unbelievable. Sensational. Mind blowing. Literally breathtaking. "…Nice." Oh, for God's sake! "But I have to stop home before I, you know, go back and pick up my dad. And it's a half-hour drive at least. More, if I wait too long and end up in rush-hour traffic. So…"
During my rambling, I've managed to extricate myself from Conn's embrace. I move back one more step, stumbling over something in the sand. It's the owl mug. Conn must have dropped it when we…yeah. For some reason I keep staring at it until Conn puts a heavy hand on each of my shoulders. Normally I love when he does that—his touch grounds me, calms me. But this time it feels like I'm going to sink into the sand from the weight.
"Hey. Don't do this."
"Do what? I'm not doing anything. I really have to go. I might stop at the office to let everybody know what's going on with Dad, and…"
I really need to stop babbling, is what I really need to do. So I duck out from under him, smile bravely, and trip across the sand, up the steps, along the side of his house. I force myself to look back and wave before climbing the stairs to the road. Conn is staring at me from the beach, hands on his hips, but he makes no move to come after me. Once I'm four or five houses away, I lean against a brick pillar at the end of someone's driveway, knees shaking violently, and bury my face in my hands.
I am so dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
How I get through the rest of the day, I have no idea. I mean that literally—I barely recall the drive to the hospital to pick up my dad, the procedure we go through to get him discharged, or what we talk about on the way home. In my head I'm still on the beach, locked in an embrace with Conn.
One thing that does cut through my mental fog is realizing how well my father's doing already. He seems almost back to normal, even joking with the nurses and eating the hospital lunch with gusto while we wait for his discharge papers. By the time I get him settled at home with his housekeeper Magda, I'm no longer worried about the state of his health or any complications from the surgery. There isn't even any point in my sitting with him for the rest of the day, which I'd planned on doing. When he shoos me away, I make sure he's comfortable on the sofa, admonish him to take it easy like the doctors and nurses advised, give him a kiss and a hug, and retreat to my apartment. I should stop by the real estate office. I should check in with my New Best Friend clients. But I can't. My brain is on overload, and all I can do is hide out until it reboots.
I trudge upstairs, my bones aching like I've aged decades in only a day, to find a cellophane monster blocking my door. The entire landing smells like a greenhouse. I creep up on the monster sideways, slowly, so as not to startle it, and poke it with my key. The giant fan shape tips sideways. I catch it before it can do a giant face-plant (plant-plant?) then drag it into my apartment.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. I've never been much of a flowers person—ply me with food and I'm all yours, but I could always take or leave posies. However, this giant bouquet is stunning. And intimidating. Is this a declaration of—okay, if not love, serious feelings on Conn's part? Or is it an apology for what happened? I almost don't want to read the card to find out.
I spend way too much time struggling with the ribbon, the paper, the cellophane, the rubber bands, the individual water reservoir nipples on each stem, as a way of avoiding the moment of truth when I have to open the small envelope tucked inside and see what Conn has to say about what happened this morning. I ball up the wrapping and throw it away. I trim the stems. I find a couple of vases. I share a bit of my carefully hoarded vodka with the flowers to prolong their lives.
I allow myself one swig to steady my nerves, because my heart beats triple time whenever I glance at the envelope on the counter, now puckered from stray droplets of water. I don't even know what I want it to say. If it's a declaration of love, will I handle it as poorly as I did this morning? I got what I wanted and promptly ran away. Who does that? I do, apparently. But if it's an apology and a request to go back to being friends, I'll be devastated.
I never said my brain was ready to make sense of the situation yet.
Instead of ripping the note open and finding out the truth as soon as possible, I take a long shower then wrap myself in my security blanket, a plush robe stolen from a spa Taylor and I went to a couple of years ago. It was Taylor's idea to boost the robes. Even though I know the place just added the cost to our bill, I felt so guilty afterward that I pushed it to the back of the closet and only wear it when I need to wrap myself in senses-deadening fluff. Like now, for instance.
After that I do a little standing in the middle of my living room. Nothing else. Just standing and staring like a drugged-up lunatic in an asylum. I'm exhausted, I remind myself. So I try to nap…and end up staring at my bedroom ceiling…decamp to the sofa and stare at the living room ceiling instead…stop myself from lying on the kitchen floor to stare at what's overhead by reminding myself it's an extension of the living room ceiling.
I give up on a nap and raid the fridge.
Meanwhile, the little white envelope catches my eye repeatedly, until I lunge for it. There's no genteel loosening of the flap here. Instead, I wrench it open, almost mangling the card inside as well, and force myself to read it while my stomach does nonstop backflips.
Sorry I didn't see you before I left, Miss Melanie—had to go on a business trip. Think about my offer. Hope you say yes. Love, Jack
What…what? I read the message again. Jack?
Jack, not Conn? Sent me flowers? When did he ever do that before? Never. Why would he now? And what offer? Say yes to wh—?
Then everything stops. Is he referring to what he said on the beach? About us spending some "alone time" together? Was he serious? Is he serious?
I start to fidget as another thought comes to me. If Jack's offering, does that mean I'm wrong about him an
d Sasha? If that's the case, I'm glad I never said anything to Conn. I don't think I could stand being wrong about his personal life again.
Jack, huh?
I scoop up my phone and dial the number on the card. "Well, aren't you the romantic."
Jack laughs softly in my ear. I can imagine his tanned face lighting up as he stretches in his office chair. Or maybe he's on a chaise at a hotel pool. I really have no idea where he is or what he does when he goes on business trips. "Like 'em?"
"What's not to like? They're exotic, impressive, and expensive."
"Exactly what I was going for. So are you thinking about it?"
"I'm honestly not sure what to think."
"Ah, Miss Melanie, you're always playing hard to get. Okay, picture this: a few days in New York…"
What? A few days? Most people would start with dinner.
"VIP treatment all the way. I'd personally introduce you to the network's president and pitch the guest spot on one of our highest-rated news shows. There's no way they'd be able to turn us down. Literally no way—National Network News is a Rossiter-owned company."
"Er…" My sleep-deprived brain has to work overtime to catch up to what he's saying. What is he saying? If this is a date, it's the weirdest one I've ever heard of.
"So what do you think? Want to be on television?"
Television? And then I remember his offer on the golf course, to promote Your New Best Friend on national TV. "Jack…"
"Come on! Say yes! It'll be the best thing ever. National attention! Your business would be huge! Plus I'd make it worth your while."
I know he's talking about money, but he makes it sound sexual. It's unnerving. I have no idea how to answer. Then I'm snapped out of my daze by the sound of banging on my door. It's startling, not only because it's loud and sudden, but because the number of people who come to my apartment is small: Hannah, Taylor, my father once in a blue moon, and the UPS guy. Three of those four aren't around, and I'm not expecting—
"Melanie? Open up."
My God.
"I know you're in there. Open the door."
Conn has never, ever come here voluntarily. The last time he was at my apartment was a year ago, when I shamelessly complimented him on his muscle definition until he agreed to carry a really heavy chair up the stairs after the deliverymen dumped it in the entryway while I was out. Even then, he barely stayed long enough to accept a bottle of water in payment.
"Miss Melanie?" Jack prompts in my ear.
While I'd like to pretend I'm torn between these two men, there really is only one option for me. "Jack, I'll have to call you another time."
"I'll be back in New York next week. I can get something set up then, so don't take too long to think about it. Okay?"
I may agree and say goodbye politely, but I'm not sure. In a daze, I drop the phone onto my coffee table, cross the room, and lean my forehead against the door as I try to get my breathing under control.
"M? You there?" A pause, then, "I have ice cream."
He gets me. Damn him.
I press my eye to the peephole, even though there's no way that voice could belong to anyone but Conn. The entire sightline is filled with the MooMoo's logo stamped on a white paper bag.
"It's a sundae with caramel sauce, and everything's melting."
Well, we can't have that. MooMoo's should never go to waste. I open the door.
As slowly as I move, to brace myself for the sight of the man I love holding the ice cream I love, seeing Conn on my doorstep still sends me reeling. It's like gazing into the sun; I can't look directly at him.
I decide to focus on his gift instead. "Chocolate or vanilla soft serve?" I ask brusquely as I unceremoniously relieve him of the bag and peek inside.
"Yes."
I need to marry this man.
Nope, those kinds of thoughts have had me so immobilized I already lost an entire day. I can't go back to that again. Noticing they forgot to include a spoon, I hurry into the kitchen and pull one out of the drawer. After a moment's hesitation, I get another. Manners dictate I share my ice cream, and the thought of using one spoon gives rise to dangerous notions, like feeding each other. Or drizzling—
Stop.
Conn blocks the way out of the kitchen. It doesn't take much. In fact, his presence makes my entire apartment seem incredibly small all of a sudden. He fills the space, a large, rough-hewn, masculine contrast to my mostly pastel, decidedly girly surroundings. He's entirely out of place.
It makes me dangerously tingly.
What's worse, he's staring down at me, studying me intently, and not budging from his position in the doorway. Not speaking, not moving. Just staring. Damn, if the ice cream wasn't melted yet, it is now, from the heat that's suddenly coming off me in waves.
I need room. I need air. I need to get rid of this fifteen-pound robe. Er, wait—bad idea, considering I'm not wearing much of anything underneath it. Or maybe it would be a really good idea, come to think of it.
While I work to keep myself from hyperventilating, Conn's eyes flick over to the two vases of flowers on the counter but still says nothing.
The heat waves intensify. I expect the paper bag I'm holding to ignite and disappear into thin air like a magician's flash paper. My robe might be about to do the same.
"Are you going to stand there, or are you going to sit down with me and eat this ice cream?" I sound bossy enough that he backs up a step. I squeeze past him, reeling when my breasts brush up against his arm. Well, not my breasts, exactly—there's all this foot-thick fabric in the way. Stupid robe.
While I'm distracted by filthy thoughts, Conn saunters over to the sofa and sits there, settling in and gesturing me over. I had planned on herding him toward my small table by the window. Now it's too late. I sit. Perch, actually. Every muscle in my body is seized up tight. Conn, on the other hand, has relaxed into my couch entirely, even going so far as to do a touch of manspreading. Not enough to be obnoxious, just enough to make my eyes drop to…
"Have some? Ice cream, I mean." Did that shrill voice come out of me?
I plop the spoons and the bag onto the coffee table, swipe off a jumble of magazines, rip the bag down the side, take the plastic dome off the bowl. I hand one of the spoons to Conn. We eat in silence. Well, he takes some every once in a while, but mostly he stays out of my way and lets me go at it. I don't worry about how this looks. He's seen me eat a vat of ice cream on many occasions. I do glance over once though, thinking how weird it is that he hasn't said a word since he walked in, and he smiles knowingly around a spoonful of chocolate and caramel.
"What?" Yes, I even talk with my mouth full. This is what years of constantly being around one another will do.
"Nothing," he finally says, placing his spoon carefully on one of the napkins instead of gumming up my coffee table. I notice these kinds of things. I appreciate these kinds of things. He looks me up and down, assessing. "Better now?"
"Better than what?"
"Earlier. You're stressed. You're tired. I figure you haven't eaten all day. And you know how you get on an empty stomach."
It's pointless to argue. I am indeed a wreck when I'm off my sleeping and eating schedule. "So this was, what, intended to placate the beast?"
"Of course. And a way to get you to sit still and talk to me for five minutes."
"So it was a trap."
"You took the bait."
"You suck."
"I know what I have to do to get the job done."
His last statement hangs there, filled with all sorts of innuendo, and I'm hot all over once again. I lick some caramel off my thumb and stare into the now empty bowl.
"And what job is that?"
"To get you to stop freaking out."
"I'm not—"
"Stop it. I know a Melanie freak-out when I see one. And may I say you've outdone yourself this time."
"I—"
"I mean, it was really impressive. You couldn't get away from me fast enough this morning."
I'm offended and want to argue, but I stop short, shocked when I realize he's laughing. A lot. At me. "Oh really?"
"Little…" He can barely get the words out. "Little cartoon puffs of smoke shooting out behind you…" He wiggles his fingers to imitate my apparently scooting feet as I ran from him.
He doesn't sober up. In fact, he actually laughs harder. It's a rare sight, Conn roaring, tears of mirth in the corners of his eyes. When it does happen, it's pretty glorious.
"Well, can you blame me?" I exclaim indignantly, giving him an exasperated shove. "It was weird. All the…I mean…you and me and…" I can't describe it, so I start making exaggerated kissing noises like I'm nine years old again. Now he's got me laughing.
"Yeah, okay. I'll give you that." He dries his eyes with the heel of his hand as his laughter finally winds down. "It was…unusual."
"Unusual? Seriously? It was downright surreal."
"Good surreal or bad surreal?" he asks evenly.
"There's a difference?"
"Yes. And I'm going to take a chance and bet on 'good surreal,' because I didn't catch you wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you sprinted off."
"Maybe I hid that from you."
"I doubt it."
"Ego!"
"I dunno," he says slowly, "for a while there you weren't exactly fighting to get away from me."
His voice has dropped into that sexy register with a frequency that seems to have the ability to dissolve things. Like my resolve. And, I'd bet, my underwear. He's leaning in, and so am I. Neither of us is laughing now.
"So which is it, Abbott?" he rumbles. "Are you going to stay freaked out about what happened, or are we going to discuss this like rational adults?"
"That depends," I say, my voice suddenly hoarse. I clear my throat.
"On what?"
"What you're thinking about our little…incident this morning."
"Incident?" he repeats, incredulous. "That's what you're going to call it?"
Development? No, that sounds too hopeful, like there's a future attached to it. Adventure? It certainly was, although I can't tell if it was a good one or a bad one yet. Encounter? Awfully sexual. A connotation I approve of, mind.
